The Raid at Crazyhorse Read online

  WILLIAM VANCE has also written:

  THE WOLF SLAYER (F-276)

  THE WILD RIDERS OF SAVAGE VALLEY (F-358)

  OUTLAW BRAND (M-122)

  SON OF A DESPERADO (G-584)

  TRACKER (G-615)

  THE RAID AT CRAZYHORSE

  by

  WILLIAM VANCE

  ACE BOOKS, INC.

  1120 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1967, by Ace Books, Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright ©, 1967, by Ace Books, Inc.

  Printed in U.S.A.

  I

  SAM HARDEN'S wide shoulders carried all the pressures of a ruinous year that fall night in 1886. What he wanted to do was get drunk and forget the whole stinking mess; the effects of the big dry were that bad. The range was brown and brittle and the streams dry. Cattle bawled for lack of water. The long dry spell had put a kink in the whole country.

  But it wasn't all the fault of the weather, the events at the tail end of that disastrous year. It was, in the terms of an earlier generation, the way the stick floated. Looking back, an old-timer remarked simply, "They just had to happen. That's all."

  The accidents of fate happened, as they will. All these meshed and the wheels began turning the night Sam Harden came to town, all unaware of forces working outside nature itself. He was of the Flag Hardens, big through the shoulders and chest, flat-bellied, lean-hipped, all dark of hair and eye and high-strung and touchy as the wild mustangs roaming the hills. The Flag spread wasn't the biggest—nor the smallest—though most admitted it was the best run in the Territory of Montana; some went so far as to say in the whole western range, from Canada to Mexico.

  But despite good management, Flag was in as bad shape as the rest of the ranchers. The market was down, the range overstocked and now—this drought. The Harden boys, Sam, and Dick, as smart as they were, tasted defeat along with the rest. Observers remarked that Sam took it harder; others answered that that was because Sam was the mainspring of the operation. Dick Harden didn't much give a damn about most things.

  Sam Harden, the older of the brothers, put his buckskin gelding past the crossroad corner for which the town was named and felt the wind pluck at his sheepskin-lined coat. It had shifted from the north since nightfall and the hint of moisture in it mocked the drought-stricken country.

  The cottonwoods around the dark courthouse were waving wildly and throwing off their clouds of cotton when he went past. He stopped at Ketterman's Livery Barn, folding his big hands on the saddle horn, outwardly relaxed. The stableman moved out of the darkness into the dim glow cast by a lantern hung on a nail beside the door.

  "Sam, hi-ya," Ora Ketterman said. "Think it'll rain?"

  "All right, Ora, hi-ya," Sam answered. "Not much hope." "I reckon. Your brother Dick. He's drunk and raisin' hell." From down the street a wild yell split the night.

  "Yeeoowww! I'm a ring-tailed cattymount an' it's my night to howl!"

  "That's him," Ora said. "He's been at it since right after dinner."

  Since nooning, Sam thought moodily, feeling a stir of anger. He leaned forward and said, "Thanks, Ora. Guess I'll be late for the meeting."

  "I wouldn't if I was you," Ora said. "Jesse Kenton's in town."

  Sam thought, Jesse Kenton can go jump in the lake. He turned his horse in the direction of the wild yell. Kid brothers were made to be looked after, he told himself philosophically, trying to stem his rising tide of rage.

  Dick, if it was he, emptied a six-shooter at the sky and another wild yell sounded out. The street was empty of people. A dark form staggered out from the shadow of the feed store and stood droop-shouldered in the street. Sam could see that his younger brother was trying to reload his pistol.

  He kicked his boots out of the stirrups and slipped from his horse. "Gimme that gun, you knothead," he said.

  Dick Harden swung his head uncertainly, trying to find the source of the authoritative voice. "Whosh ashking fer my gun?" he demanded in a bubbling voice. "Ain't gonna do it. Gonna shoot—" He weaved back and forth. "Ah, ha, it's good or big brother come for little brother."

  "Listen, Dick, you better come with me. I'll get a room at the Stockman's and you can sleep it off." Sam forced himself to speak civilly when what he really wanted to do was knock his younger brother sprawling.

  "Hell, no," Dick said unsteadily. "Ain't gonna do it." He fumbled with his pistol and dropped shells on the ground. "Can't find the hole. Maybe I better get one with hair around it." He giggled.

  Sam took his arm and Dick shook it off. "Leave me be," he snarled.

  "What got you started, Dick?"

  Dick put his arms around Sam and sagged against him, laying his head on Sam's shoulder and beginning to whimper. "Didn't you hear?" he moaned. "Liz Porter killed herself this mornin'. A purty girl like that shot herself right in the head, Sam." He pushed away from Sam and tried to reload his gun again. "That damned buddy o' your'n," he said fiercely. "I'm gonna kill 'im, Sam—"

  Sam was shocked at the suicide of the prettiest girl in Crossroad Corners but that didn't stay his anger. He slapped the gun out of Dick's hand and kicked it away. All the frustration of the long, hard summer was in his rock-hard fist as he slammed it against Dick's chin. He knocked the younger man flat. Then he lifted him to his shoulder and trudged down the street to the Stockman's Hotel.

  Molly McGee's pretty brown eyes widened when she saw him coming in. She didn't waste words, though, reaching for a key and heading for the stairs ahead of him. He tramped up the steps, watching the motion of her hips under the linsey-woolsey skirt and liking what he saw.

  "He's been drinking all day," she said. "Ever since he heard—"

  "It hit me, too," Sam said.

  "But not enough to send you drinking. I'm surprised he passed out. He doesn't usually—"

  "I knocked him out," Sam said.

  "Oh," she said. She bent to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open.

  Dick moaned as Sam placed him on the bed. He straightened. "Haven't time to undress him," he said. "Anyway, he doesn't know."

  She followed him out of the room. "I'll bring him coffee when he wakes up and starts yelling," she said. She placed a soft hand on his arm. "Don't you worry about him, Sam. You've got enough to worry about."

  "Thanks, Molly," he said. He went down the hallway, down the stairs and back to his patient horse still standing where he'd left him. He fisted the reins and walked toward The Mint, seeing the momentary glow of a cigarette in the alley between the Ace Bar and the courthouse.

  Fill McGee's spy, he thought. He swung down the alley that led to the back door of The Mint and tied his horse to a worn hitching post, a big, dark-moving shape against the black of night. Then he pushed open the back door of The Mint and walked down a dark corridor, toward a gush of yellow light and the bum of voices.

  Sam strolled in through the open door and saw with a mild shock, despite what Ketterman had told him, that Jesse Kenton was sitting at the green-covered card table, dominating the group in the room.

  "Hi-ya, Sam." Kenton nodded, his hard bright eyes cold and unfriendly. He held a copy of the Crossroad Corner Times in his hand. Marv Teller, Kenton's gunfighter, leaned against the wall behind his boss, his ankles crossed, his eyes dull as lead.

  The others in the room were George Balfont, from Limber Creek, and Reno Milser of the Circle M, all as hard-pressed as Sam Harden.

  "Where's Dick?" Balfont asked Harden.

  Sam reddened and didn't answer.

  Kenton's voice, colorless and without inflection, asked, "Don't you know, George?"

  "I wouldn't be asking if I knew," Balfont answered testily. He was a handsome man, with bold brown eyes and prematurely gray hair.

  Kenton stared at Sam Harden, his eyes narrowed under bushy, blond brows. He deliberately took out his watch; the lamplight glinted on it as he flicked the cover open. His eyes returned to Harden and he said, "I'll give him five minutes . .."

  Sam returned the stare. "Don't wait," he said in a hard, flat voice. "Dick's drunk and won't be here."

  "It's his range, too," Reno Milser said petulantly. "I say—"

  "Don't say it right now," Kenton said, shaking the paper, his face ugly with anger. "I want to read this juicy bit to all of you before we go into anything else." He looked at them, first one then another, scowling darkly. He shook out the paper, cleared his throat and read in a heavy monotone: "I, the undersigned, do hereby notify the public that I claim the valley off from Crazyhorse Creek, six miles east of Crossroad Corners, to the source of the creek south of the railroad, as stock range. Signed, John Cooney, also known as Tex and Texas John Cooney." Kenton lifted his head and glared at them as though they were responsible for the published notice of preemption.

  All of them stared back at him.

  "There goes our winter range!" Reno Maser complained. "It's not enforceable in any court of law," George Balfont said uncertainly.

  Sam looked at him, wondering if George was thinking about Liz Porter. What went through that handsome head? But he said, "Not any more than our claim is." His voice was unchanged, hard and flat.

  Jesse Kenton shifted his angry glance to Sam. "Whatever you do Sam, don't go maverick on us now."

  "We don't have to worry about Sam," Balfont said quickly when he saw Sam's face redden.

  Irritation washed over Kenton's face. He slammed the paper on the table. "Reno, tell Leo to bring us a bottle and glasses," he said. "We can at
least have a drink to loosen us up for this damned business."

  "Not for me," declared Sam Harden. "I want to be stone-cold sober when I talk about this, Jesse. What's on your mind is killing business." It didn't help to remember that Pony Keefe had been murdered not a month ago under mysterious circumstances while everyone nodded knowingly and whispered, Kenton knows all about that, in a dark manner.

  Reno was already on his way out of the room. George Balfont said quickly, lunging out of his chair, "I'll go with you, Reno."

  When they were alone, except for Marv Teller, Kenton said, confidentially, "Sam, when it comes down to cases, there's just you and me. Reno's an old man but he's sparkin' a young girl, from one of the families Fillmore McGee brought in. He's going to have his hands full, Reno is; wait and see. And George Balfont—Liz Porter killed herself today. As for Dub Porter, you know him.

  "That leaves it all to you and me, Sam. Fighting on two sides, this Texas John on the one hand and Fill McGee on the other. It's going to take all we have to pull it through. Why, God, even without this other trouble this drought and market drop would near do us in!"

  "What're you trying to tell me, Jesse?" He glanced at the silent Teller and noted that the man's eyes had lost the dull sheen usually present.

  Kenton relaxed visibly and laughed shortly. "The land is kind of like a woman," he said, finally. "Only more so, Sam. Land is more than money, more than food for a hungry man, more than a woman to a raunchy, horny trail hand."

  "Not to me," Sam said bluntly. "I saw my own father kill himself working for more and more land."

  "That's what I mean," Kenton said in a kindly voice, in a manner he thought fatherly. His losses this year made him feel anything but fatherly, but he had things to do and this man standing before him seemed necessary to his plans.

  "That's exactly what I mean, Sam. You don't understand. You had that big ranch handed to you and Dick on a silver platter. I knew your old daddy—"

  "And he knew you, Kenton," Sam said. "You got plans, count me out. I'll kill my own snakes."

  "You're pushing thirty, Sam," Kenton said, dangerously quiet. "Time you started acting like a grown-up."

  Sam had often had that same thought but it was different the way Kenton said it. Before he could frame a reply Reno and Balfont came through the door. Reno carried a bottle of whiskey and George held four glasses in one hand. Reno deposited the bottle on the table and Balfont clattered the glasses beside it.

  "Go ahead, Jesse," Balfont said. "Pour up."

  "Tell him, George, go on, tell him," Reno said around his stump of a cigar.

  These are the men, Sam thought with something akin to despair, that the job of holding this country together falls on.

  Kenton looked up expectantly. "What's this?" he asked in a sharpened voice.

  George Balfont didn't have the opportunity to tell Kenton anything. They all turned their heads automatically at the

  slim man who suddenly appeared in the doorway. He wore a derby over near-white hair that fell to the velvet collar of his long coat. Ruffles peeped from the cuffs of the same

  velvet and laced the shirt below the flowing tie. He wore a diamond stickpin and a diamond ring. His trousers were tailor-made, and fitted his legs tightly. His soft black leather boots were immaculate. Lazily, he brushed back his coat with his two thumbs and stuck them into his belt.

  "George," he said in a soft, almost pleasant drawl, "I want to see you outside."

  Dub Porter stared at Balfont with frosty gray eyes and unsmilingly waited for an answer.

  Balfont's throat worked as he attempted a smile. "This is not the time, Dub," he said huskily. "I'm—I'm sorry. More than I can tell." His smile disappeared and sweat stood on his brown forehead. "This is not the time," he repeated.

  Dub Porter shrugged his shoulders and dropped his hands. It seemed almost like magic the way the derringer appeared in his right hand. He raised it with a practiced movement. "All right, then," he said.

  II

  SAM HARDEN was standing nearest Porter. He moved like the slashing attack of a tiger. The derringer boomed in the

  closeness of the room and the bullet tore into the planking of the upper wall. Harden held the hand holding the two-shot pistol in an iron grip and, without stopping the motion of his body, pinned Porter against the wall.

  The slim gambler didn't resist the weight and strength of the big man. Relaxed, he stared at Sam with frosty gray eyes. "There'll be another time, Sam," he said.

  All the others except Balfont were talking excitedly. He was white-faced and shaking.

  Teller moved in then, with his pistol raised. He aimed a smashing blow at Porter's head. Sam moved and took part

  of the brunt of the blow on his shoulder. At the same time he kicked out. Teller fell to the floor with a strangled cry, writhing in agony, his hands clasped between his legs.

  "You didn't have to do that, Sam!" Jesse Kenton yelled in a high-pitched, ranging voice.

  Sam kicked again and the pistol Teller had dropped skittered across the room and bumped against the wall. He twisted the derringer out of Porter's long slim fingers and dropped in in the side pocket of his coat. He pushed and shoved Porter to the door.

  "You'd better get out of here, Dub," he said, and shoved the gambler, a push that propelled him a half dozen feet down the hall.

  Dub Porter turned slowly, unruffled, shot his cuffs and straightened his coat. "I'll kill him sooner or later," he said and then he turned away, striding toward the noise of the outer room.

  Leo Maury, owner of The Mint bustled back. "Heard a shot," he said. "What—"

  "Go on, Leo," Kenton barked. "Nothin' happened. Gun went off, that's all. Nobody hurt."

  Leo looked at all of them and turned away, not saying a word. The men in the room represented a large portion of the trade he enjoyed and he wasn't about to question them.

  Kenton turned back into the room. Teller was seated at the table, his face sick but his eyes blazing with hatred as he looked at Sam Harden.

  Jesse Kenton repeated, "You didn't have to do that, Sam." "No, I didn't," Sam agreed. "But I always did hate to see a man hit when he couldn't protect himself."

  "We'll never come to any agreement," Kenton said, and strangely he seemed uncertain of himself. "If we can't get together on something we'll be up the creek without a paddle."

  "What'd you have in mind, Jesse?" Sam asked.

  "Why, to keep this Texas hombre out for one thing," Kenton said in a puzzled voice. "We ain't got grass for our own, let alone for some dust buster's cows."

  "And how was you aimin' to keep him out?"

  "We all act together," Kenton said. "We pool all our men. We ride out there and turn him back. He don't turn back—" He looked at Sam with hard eyes.

  "I'm getting out of here," Balfont said in a shaky voice. "Me too," Reno said, "soon's I finish this here cigar and get another drink."

  Balfont didn't look at them as he hurried out of the room with his head down.

  "What's spookin' him?" Kenton asked, "Dub or what I said?" He hit the table with his fist. "We'll all go under if it's every man for himself. We'll never make it, I'm warnin' you, Sam."

  Sam didn't answer but turned out of the room to follow Balfont. Outside, in the night, Sam's horse whickered softly.

  Balfont stood there beside the horse, his head down. He straightened and turned to face Sam. "Thanks for knocking up that gun," he said. "He'd of got me sure at that range." His voice choked down. "As if I wasn't already all broke up. About Liz."

  "It was her choice, George," Sam said. "Why don't you try to forget it?"

  "She was sick," Balfont said haltingly. "She was sick in her mind, Sam. Trouble was, I knew it and couldn't do anything about it."

  "The talk that's going around is that you got her in trouble, George. And then dropped her." It was hard for him to say it.

  "That's a damn lie," Balfont snapped. "We were good friends, Sam, and that's all! Liz hated the life she had to live. She hated having Dub Porter for a father. And she hated this crappy town with a passion."

  "Dub thinks different," Sam answered. "He'll try again."